


Don't change for me

by ko_writes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sadism, Self-Harm, Songfic, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have started the second year of university and are roommates. John wants to focus on his studies as he has been given a golden opportunity but Sherlock has to deal with a lot; mainly his psychopathic boyfriend Jim. Sherlock gets help and realises something very important before the school talent show. Self harm, child abuse and Sadism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Motorcyclist

   John Watson’s rusted Renault Clio spluttered through the gates of the prestigious Baker Street Academy. The campus was well kept and the school buildings were old but grand; John expected to see Latin phrases and mottos peppered around the campus, but saw no such thing.

   He parked the car and slammed the door closed. He checked his reflection in the side mirrors. His shirt didn’t look that bad with his blazer; shirts and blazers weren’t compulsory, but made him feel like he fit in slightly better. He walked away from the car without locking it; he thought anyone stupid enough to steal it deserved what they got.

   All of a sudden, a motorcycle engine roared. The machine blared past him in a split second; the motorcyclist in black skinny jeans and dark denim jacket. ‘Leather would be much safer…’ he couldn’t help thinking. He peered around the corner to find the cyclist performing tricks to a growing audience; Skids, wheelies, and the like. Before his brain could register the following events, he stared slack-jawed as the motorcycle rested on its front wheel and the cyclist turned the engine off. This cyclist then clutched the back of the cycle and pulled themselves into a perfect handstand. To John’s horror, the motorcycle tilted and righted itself, though this seemed intentional, the cyclist still in the perfectly straight handstand; the wheel came back to the ground with a thud. The crowd cheered in amazement of this cyclist’s skill; John was not so amazed, though. “Idiot,” he mumbled under his breath.

   The cyclist removed his helmet and shook out his curly locks of brunette hair, showing off to his admiring public. He seemed to have a glow about him becoming of an angel. His fame was so thin; John didn’t even know it was possible to have a waist that small.

   John opened the boot of his abomination of a car; he removed the scruffy suitcase and looked back at the cyclist to find him being swamped by a crowd of girls dressed in black with piercings and studs; John always called them rocker girls, but he doubted they called themselves as such, though; he had heard the phrase ‘rock chicks’ thrown about, but would feel stupid saying or even thinking it. Then, he saw the cyclist put his hand up to the girls (like how the policemen in the cartoons he watched when he was younger signalled a car to stop). He strode up to a boy in the crowd who threw one arm around the cyclist’s waist, almost possessively. They walked off together. Very nice arse… he noted.

   John thought it was best to get to his dorm room now. He ran one hand through his short blonde hair as he did so. He wondered who the mysterious cyclist was.

………………………

   Sherlock sped through the entrance to the university on his Triumph Rocket III motorbike. It was a shining black and very slick; easy to do tricks on. Sherlock knew that denim was not the best in the way of protection against road-rash if he were to fall off, but he was not going to wear the skin of some poor, defenceless animal just to avoid a bit of skin irritation; he thought the leather industry was grotesque.

   Sherlock received a lot of attention for his motorbike and his tricks. He sped up, skidding, performing wheelies and every other trick he knew. He still felt the adrenaline when he would stop the engine and perform a perfectly straight handstand as the machine crashed to the ground.

   Sherlock summersaulted of the motorbike to a round of applause. He removed his helmet and shook his head from side to side to fix his hair after it had been compressed by the black helmet. His florescent green nose-stud glowed in the sun.

   A crowd of girls ran to Sherlock, the most prominent two being Irene Adler and Molly Hooper, who insisted on being called Elspeth because that was a ‘better name’.  
“Hi Sherlock…” Irene breathed.

   Sherlock almost felt like talking to her before seeing his boyfriend in the crowd. He held up a dismissive hand and strode over to his boyfriend.  
“Jim Moriarty…” he smiled.

   “Sherlock Holmes!” Jim grinned, “Did you miss me?”

   Sherlock smiled a wicked smile, “You have no idea!” As he said this he pulled Jim closer to his body.

   “Good things come to those who wait, Sherlock,” Jim said seductively.

   “Oh, I’m so bad; you must punish me, Mr Moriarty,” Sherlock sighed, innuendo in his voice.

   “I intend to!” A slightly unnerving glint in his eye as he snaked his arm around the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s breathed hitched. Despite his confident words and looks he gave his boyfriend; he was, in truth, a little scared of him sometimes. He had taken a lot of abuse last year from Jim’s love of whips, strangulation and the like; Jim was a definite Sadist, “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Jim pulled a much exaggerated sad face, almost mocking.

   “Nothing, Jim,” he smiled.

   “What was that?!” Jim snapped.

   “Nothing, Mr Moriarty, sir!” Sherlock coward a little; dreading the blow that usually accompanied this.

   “Good boy, Sherlock. You forgot over the summer, didn’t you?” patronising, mocking, pity in his voice.

   “Yes, Mr Moriarty.” Sherlock didn’t even resist the mocking or put up a fight. Between the school year with Jim and the summer with his father, he was weak and broken.

   “All my training gone… We can’t have that, can we?” Jim was acting extremely sinister.

   “No, Mr Moriarty.” Sherlock was wide eyed, terrified.

   They had walked away from the crowd, no one was around; but Jim checked behind him to make sure. He quickly, firmly, dominantly back-handed Sherlock, making all six feet of the eighteen year old crash to the floor.

   “What do you call me?!” he shouted, leaning over Sherlock making him feel crowded.

   “Mr Moriarty.” He whimpered.

   “Good boy. Do you tell anyone about what Mr Moriarty does to you?”

   “No.”

   “What would happen if you told?”

   “The flirting is over and the real pain begins.”

   “If people see the marks, what do you say?”

   “I’m a clumsy slut.” Sherlock sobbed.

   “Come on, Sherlock. You don’t cry, remember. Or I hurt you even more.” Jim growled.

   “Can I go, Mr Moriarty. My brother’s probably waiting in my room with my stuff.” Sherlock coward.

   “Ah, Mycroft. Sure. I’d hate to make him wait for his little brother. Off you pop. We’re performing ‘Slut Like You’ tonight at the club. Be there by eight. You can sing a song if you want. You love to sing.”

   “Yes, Mr Moriarty. I’ll be there.” Sherlock almost ran away, but gained composure and walked away.

   “Oh, Sherlock. Kiss!”

   Sherlock intended to just give Jim a short, chastise kiss on his lips but it turned rough with slight strangulation.

   “Thank you, Mr Moriarty. I deserve my punishments.” Sherlock knew he didn’t deserve this, but who else would love him.

   “Off you pop, Sherlock. And don’t be late; there are some very steep stone steps in the club and we know how clumsy you get when you’re late.”

   Sherlock picked up on the threat. “Goodbye, Mr Moriarty.”

   “I feel I need an apology, Sherlock.” He called.

   “Sorry I’m such a stupid little slut, Mr Moriarty.”

   “Thank you, good boy.”

   Sherlock walked to his dorm room; his mind swimming with Jim’s threats. He was dreading Jim’s reaction to his roommate; the on last year mysteriously broke his back and became paralysed.

   He hoped his brother was there; their sparring always seemed to make him feel better after his talks with Mr Moriarty. He was dreading this year.


	2. Roommates

   John had thrown his suitcase on the bed and was unpacking reluctantly. He didn’t remember packing half of the things in the suitcase. He quickly checked his phone to see if his mother or Harry had called.

   He could hear a taping, like the tap on a touch phone. He looked to the door to see Sherlock writing a furious text to his brother asking him why he wasn’t there with his things. He saw his new roommate looking at him so finished his rant and sent the text.

   “Sorry about that, my idiot brother; the name’s Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled politely.

   “John Watson,” John replied, “I assume you’re my roommate for this year.”

   “Yes… Yes I am.” He simply said. ‘If you last that long.’

   “So… Hey.” John sighed awkwardly.

   “How do you feel about the guitar?” Sherlock asked, “Electric, sometimes acoustic, but not often. Roommates should know the worst about each other.”

   “Fine… I guess. As long as it doesn’t interrupt my studying, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock sat on John’s bed.

   “That’s alright. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your studying, you’ve been given an amazing opportunity and training to be a doctor is so demanding.”

   “How… how did you know?” Sherlock looked down.

   “The same way I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic.”

   “Ok… Wow… Amazing.” John stared at Sherlock quizzically, with a smile tugging at his lips. “But how do you know?”

   “I didn’t know, I observed!” John shot him a questioning look. Sherlock elaborated, “Your shirt and blazer look good quality, but this is only in appearance, cheap fabric, cheap all together, actually; dress code is not established in this school, as you can see by my clothing, so you’re trying to fit in with the air of this university. Poor family, most likely, so how come you’re in the most prestigious university in England? Family death, inheritance, most likely. Should I say sorry for your loss? No, neither you or your parents were close to them, otherwise you would have asked them for money long ago, but you were the only one they could leave their money to. Parents know you wanted to become a doctor, so used all the money to transfer you to this school from whatever back-water, underfunded one you came from. How am I doing?”

   “Spot on…” John breathed.

   “Now; I knew you want to become a doctor due to your various text books on your bed; Grey’s Anatomy, medical dictionary. You could just be into that sort of thing, but doctor is more likely. This is fun!” Sherlock smiled, “I know you have a brother because of your phone, I saw it briefly but could see the inscription; ‘Harry Watson From Clara xxx’. Brother, not a cousin, brother is more likely. Not father, this is a young man’s gadget. What father would do something like this anyway…?”

   “Sherlock?”

   Sherlock closed his eyes and locked that particular memory back into the dungeons of his mind palace. “Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

   “How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

   “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them. How did I do?”

   “That ... was amazing,” John sighed, he was breathless and didn’t even know why.

   “Do you think so?”

   “Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

   “That’s not what people normally say.”

   “What do people normally say?”

   “‘Piss off’!”

   “Well, that’s not exactly my style!” John laughed.

   “I can see that!” Sherlock giggled.

   “How? Enlighten me!”

   “You haven’t broken my nose yet, unlike my last roommate!” The two giggled like school boys on John’s bed.

   A dark figure loomed in the doorway. “Hello, brother mine.” That usual, distant voice.

   “Mycroft.” Sherlock acknowledged.

   “And I thought Sherlock was an unusual name,” John whispered to Sherlock and they burst out laughing again, tears were streaming down John’s face.

   “Mr Watson, I’d thank you not to be so impolite, if you have something to say, say it out loud. You, brother, should know better; especially after spending the summer with father.”

   “Fuck off, Mycroft.” Sherlock scowled.

   “That’s the thanks I get for bringing your things after you sped off on that God-awful motorcycle of yours. And denim? You know leather is much safer.”

   “I am not wearing the skin of some mutilated, tortured animal! It’s grotesque!” Sherlock pulled a face of absolute disgust.

   “It’s just a phase brother; don’t risk your life over it.”

   “No one dies from road-rash, Mycroft. And it isn’t a phase!”

   “It’s like your vegetarianism; you’ll see that you’re being stupid and go back to eating meat-”

   “Fuck off, Mycroft!!!” Sherlock screamed.

   “Tut, tut; emotions already. Is father becoming more lenient or stricter?”

   “Leave!!!”

   “Hang on; your that idiot who almost killed himself doing those tricks in the car park!”

   “No, I was the biker who performed those death-defying tricks in the car park! Go away, Mycroft!”

   “I will leave in a second; turn your head, Sherlock.”

   “No!”

   “Very well.” Mycroft forced Sherlock’s face to the left; a defined bruise had formed on the side of his face.

   “I fell.” Sherlock lied.

   “These look oddly knuckle-shaped, brother,” Mycroft went to brush his thumb over the bruise, but Sherlock pulled away.

   “Don’t you have tax-payer money to waste?!”

   “I’m going. Good luck, Mr Watson.” Mycroft called.

   “Bastard!!!” Sherlock called after Mycroft.

   “You didn’t get that by falling over, Sherlock…” John spoke up.

   “I hate to be rude, but it doesn’t matter. I hope you respect my privacy.”

   “Ok… But I am here if you want to talk.”

   “Thanks. Hey! How’d you like to see me and my boyfriend perform at the Panther club tonight? Could always need more people in the audience. It is a black and stud dress code; but you can borrow some of my clothes if you don’t have anything.”

   “You know what; sure. I’ll go see you two perform. What time?”

   “I’ll be going around eight; you can join me. I have an extra helmet.”

   “Is it alright if we go in my car? I’ll feel slightly safer.”

   “Oh! I just remembered; I promised Jim a ride home on the bike. You can follow me if you want.”

   “Yeah. Can’t wait.”

   “Cool. I better get my stuff ready.” Sherlock started to rummage through his suitcase, “Oh shit!” It wasn’t there! Jim was going to beat him again! He needed to phone Mycroft.

   “What’s wrong?” John asked.

   “I just forgot my riding crop; I need to call Mycroft!” Sherlock was despite.

   “Why do you need a riding crop?”

   “My… My experiments with bruising patterns,” it wasn’t a blatant lie, “I have to go.”

   John was left alone when Sherlock ran out of the room to call his brother. Sherlock was definitely unusual.


	3. Family Portrait and Mr Holmes

   Sherlock grabbed his guitar case containing his black Yamaha RGX121Z Electric Guitar and waited at the door for John. John certainly looked weird in the ACDC t-shirt with black skinny jeans and an electric blue studded belt; he did look great in the skinny jeans, though. ‘What are you thinking?’ Sherlock thought, ‘If Mr. Moriarty found out, both of you would end up brutally murdered.’

   “Shall we go?” John’s voice brought Sherlock back from his thoughts.

   “Yes.” He sighed.

  
………………………

  
    Sherlock pulled on his helmet and made his way to the motorbike, John had parked his car next to his motorbike. Sherlock stared disapprovingly at the Renault abomination. “Does it even run?” He asked.

   “It’s a little rusty, but it’s fine,” John dismissed.

   “You know rust is basically mechanical cancer, right?” John gave him a look as if to say ‘I don’t really care’. “Don’t worry, I’ll wait up for you.” Sherlock winked, clicking his tongue. John wasn’t going to lie to himself, it was attractive. John had discovered he was bisexual for the last year, but hadn’t dared to come out to his parents.  
Sherlock threw his leg around the motorbike and turned it on with a roar. “Listen to this beast!” he boasted.

   John started his cancer car and hoped for an equally enthusiastic engine, but instead the car spluttered and coughed into starting. With crimson cheeks, John looked back at Sherlock to see he was slumped over the handlebars, tears flowing down his face, barely able to breath… because he was laughing to hard. “Fuck you!” John shouted over the motorcycle engine, a slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

   “Let’s go!” Sherlock called. He sped away on the motorcycle.

   “That bastard!” John mumbled to himself before the car spluttered after Sherlock.

   Traffic wasn’t bad and Sherlock didn’t drive as recklessly and fast as he would of. The Panther club honed into view.

  
………………………

  
    The two strode up to the bouncer. He let Sherlock in with no arguments, but he didn’t want to let John in.

   “It’s ok. I’m with the band, lead guitarist, and he’s with me,” Sherlock announced. The bouncer gave him a suspicious look.

   “I don’t know-” the bouncer shrugged.

   “Do you know who I am?!” He demanded, rather diva-ishly. John suspected that Sherlock would use a fake name, but was then proven wrong, “I’m Sherlock Holmes!”

   The bouncer seemed to cower at the name. “I-In you g-go Mr Holmes!” he stuttered.

   “Thank you,” Sherlock smiled smugly.

   “Your name literally opens doors…” John muttered.

   “Yeah, I’ve got a bit of a rep.” Sherlock shrugged, “I’ve got to go set up, see you after.”

   “Yeah.” John couldn’t wait to see Sherlock on stage. He could only imagine what Sherlock could do to that guitar with those long, slender fingers.

   Before John knew it, the lights on the stage settled and two figures could be seen… no, three, there was one behind the drum kit. Sherlock’s head rose as he plucked at the guitar strings and smiled as he laughed, “I’m not a slut, I just love love!”

   The drummer beat a steady rhythm. “Tell me something new. Cause I've heard this.” The second figure, Jim, sang.

   Sherlock then perked up from the guitar and they sang together, “You'll be my little friend. You'll be my little friend. You'll be my little friend.”

   Sherlock then sang, “And they think we fall in love. But that's not it. Just want to get some. Ain't that some sh…”

   Duet again, “You'll be my little friend. You'll be my little friend. You'll be my little friend.”

   Jim broke off to sing the chorus, but John only caught a few lines, “Wham Bam thank you Man! … I'm a slut like you … And I'm just like "me too". I'm gonna let ya know the truth. I'm a slut like you!”

   This is when Jim became very possessive of Sherlock snaking and striding in a circle around him like he was a dancer around a pole like those in the dance clubs in the red light district. John could swear he saw a brief sign of fear in Sherlock’s eyes.

   It was a while before Sherlock sang again, “You don't win a prize with your googly eyes. I'm not a cracker jack. You can't go inside. Unless I let you Jack... or Sam. Fuck what's your name again? You male come now. You caveman sit down. You shh don't ruin it, wow!”

   “Check please!” Jim called. The rest of the song was his. The drums stopped; Sherlock performed a quick rift and the song was finished. The crowd cheered, they were very popular.

   “Ok… Ok, guys! I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of my boyfriend, Sherlock who, as always, has an emotion-filled song for you! He’ll be performing ‘Family Portrait’, which is also by Pink! I bet all you regulars are screaming ‘big fucking surprise’! He loves Pink, does my Sherlock!” Jim jumped down from the stage after giving Sherlock a kiss. John felt… jealous.

   The drummer started a steady beat behind Sherlock as he began to sing, “Momma please stop crying, I can't stand the sound. Your pain is painful and it’s tearing me down. I hear glasses breaking as I sit up in my bed. I told mum he didn't mean those nasty things he said.”

   John could see pain in Sherlock’s eyes and almost saw the ghosts haunting him, the memories flooding through him.

_His mum was crying on the bathroom floor, blood flowing from her lips and nose. “It’s ok, mum. It’s ok.” His younger self tried to comfort. “It’s ok…” It wasn’t. He was crying and so was his mother._

   “You fight about money, bout me and my brother. And this I come home to, this is my shelter. It ain't easy growing up in World War III. Never knowing what love could be, you'll see. I don't want love to destroy me like it has done my family.”

_A glass tumbler, expensive, flew at his head. He ducked just in time and it shattered against the wall._

_“We aren’t sending THAT to school! It’s a waste of money!” His father snapped._

_“_ _And so is throwing expensive, breakable things at me!” He snapped without thinking._

_“_ _Come with me, boy!” His father growled._

_“No! Dad!”_

_“What did you call me?!”_

_“Sorry, Mr Homes! I’m a stupid freak!”_

_He was still dragged away._

   “Can we work it out? Can we be a family? I promise I'll be better, daddy I'll do anything. Can we work it out? Can we be a family? I promise I'll be better, mummy please don't leave.”

_“Let me out! I’m sorry, Mr Holmes!” he called from inside of the wardrobe._

_“Shut up!” He growled, “Or I get the belt!”_

   “Daddy please stop yelling, I can't stand the sound.”

_He could feel tears stream down his face._

_“Holmes’ don’t show, or even have, emotion! So stop crying and take it like a big boy!”_

   “Make mama stop crying, cuz I need her around. My daddy he loves you, no matter what he says it’s true. I know that he hurts you, but remember I love you, too.”

_His mother lay comatose on the hospital bed. “You know what happened, don’t you boy?”_

_“Yes. She fell down the stairs and hit her head. Hard.”_

_“I didn’t push, did I?”_

_“No, Mr Holmes.”_

_“Good boy.” The first and last time he had ever gotten praise from his father._

   “I ran away today, ran from the noise, ran away. Don't wanna go back to that place, but don't have no choice, no way. It ain't easy growing up in World War III. Never knowing what love could be, well I've seen. I don't want love to destroy me like it did my family.”

_The heart monitor made a god-awful sound as his mother slipped away from them. She died right in front of him. He’d hated hospital ever since. His father only had a smirk on his face which was replaced by a fake-panic when the doctors burst into the room._

   “Can we work it out? Can we be a family? I promise I'll be better, daddy I'll do anything. Can we work it out? Can we be a family? I promise I'll be better, mummy please don't leave.”

   _The church during his mother’s funeral was silent. “I cared for Lilly. She was an angel, and I loved her.”_

_It was all Sherlock could do not to yell out ‘liar’ as his father gave the speech._

   “In our family portrait, we look pretty happy. Let's play pretend, let's act like it comes naturally. I don't wanna have to split the holidays. I don't want two addresses. I don't want a step-brother anyways. And I don't want my mom to have to change her last name.”

_“Everybody smile!” his father falsely beamed. Mycroft smiled the same smug smile as his father; they were both so alike. Sherlock was more like his mother. His father never beat Mycroft; only Sherlock and his mother. Mycroft never did anything._

_“Come on, Sherlock, son. Smile.” He kissed Sherlock on the cheek. This was the first and only time he ever did so._

_They all smiled. It looked so natural; but his mother and he knew the truth. The camera flashed and they looked like a proper, happy family._

   “Mummy don't leave. Mummy don't leave. Mummy don't leave. Turn around please. Remember that the night you left you took my shining star? Mummy don't leave. Mummy don't leave. Mummy don't leave. Don't leave us here alone.”

   _He pleaded by his mother’s grave side, asking her to come back. He knew it was impossible; but if anyone could, it was his mother._

   “Dad will be nicer. I'll be so much better, I'll tell my brother. Oh, I won't spill the milk at dinner. I'll be so much better, I'll do everything right. I'll be your little boy forever. I'll go to sleep at night.”

   The song was over. Sherlock bowed. Jim helped him down from the stage. “Just great, Sherlock. You performed beautifully… Are you crying, Sherlock?” Jim asked, threateningly.

   “No, it’s just for show,” Sherlock stated, wiping away the tears.

   Sherlock silently prayed that John wouldn’t come over. He and Jim quickly exited the club and Sherlock handed his boyfriend a spare helmet. Sherlock’s head was still reeling from the memories.

   He took Jim back to his room, but didn’t stay long. He wasn’t sure if he did want to talk to his roommate after all.


	4. The Great Escape and happy memory

 

   John sat on the end of his bed reading, waiting for Sherlock. He thought that Sherlock would want to talk as he saw the pain in his eyes, the pain as he kept remembering something. John wanted to be there for the young man who was quickly becoming his friend and crush. It had only been a day, for God’s sake! Why was he feeling like this?

   The door creaked open to reveal a rather distraught looking Sherlock with tear stains down his cheek and red-rimmed eyes. Why had he sung? It was the only way he could efficiently start to feel his emotions; but if he was too childish to over-ride them when they became too strong, it was a stupid thing to do. He subconsciously ran his hand along the scars on his arm covered by his denim jacket.

   “Dear God!” John exclaimed, “What happened?”

   “I’m sorry!” Sherlock cried, John had reminded him of his father. Sherlock bolted for the bathroom and locked the door. “I’m sorry.” He faint cry could only just be heard through the door.

   “What’s wrong, Sherlock? Do you want to talk?” Sherlock wanted to talk, but couldn’t find the courage.

   “No, I just want to take a shower.” Sherlock whimpered. It was obvious that something was wrong, but John couldn’t force someone he barely knew to confess all to him.

   “Ok, Sherlock. I’ll be here if you need anything.” John sighed. He wished he knew what to do. He had cared for Harry often enough when she had come home blind drunk; but this seemed very different.

   Sherlock started the shower and let it run. He wasn’t going to use it; it was to disguise what he was actually doing. He removed his Jacket and threw it against the wall in anger. He looked down at his arms, at the scars that lay there; some recent, some stretching back quite a few painful, dusty years. They seemed to shine silver in the light. He glanced at one set of scars; he was not usual, he tended to carve words and names in his skin, this particular name read ‘Jim Moriarty’. He smiled and cried at it at the same time. He remembered that night. He told his new boyfriend about the cutting, but it didn’t seem to faze him. But something that Sherlock now knew was disgusting; Jim said ‘let me help’. Sherlock had handed Jim his arm and his boyfriend carved his name into Sherlock’s skin; making Sherlock his. It was a cherished memory for so long, how did he not realise that it was appalling?

   He removed the razorblades from the bathroom cabinet and stared at them in fond disgust. “Hello old friends,” he whispered just below his breath.

   He sat on the edge of the bath and ran the blade across his skin; the familiar satisfying pain, burn, rush of endorphins as the emotion seemed to leak out of the cuts along with his blood. He stared at the finished words on his left bicep; ‘Mr Holmes’. He didn’t belong to his father, this was another reason; this was because those words always caused him such pain. He felt the emotion flow from him as he cleaned up the blood slowly, sluggishly. “Oh shit!” The cut was bleeding too much. It had already turned the white towel completely red; he hadn’t even moped up the floor yet!

   “Sherlock, are you alright?” John’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. Sherlock used his last once of strength to unbolt the door, that was more important that answering. Sherlock fell to the bathroom fall with a grunt and saw red dots speckling the tiles at his side.

   “Sherlock, I’m coming in!” The panicked voice informed Sherlock.

   John burst into the bathroom to see a sight he hadn’t expected; Sherlock bleeding on the floor trying to cling to consciousness. John quickly examined the scars on Sherlock’s arms. “Sherlock… Do you do this a lot?”

   He could only just hear the slightly slurred reply, “Excellent deduction, doctor!” Sherlock was a little woozy and lightheaded now.

   “Sherlock, I said I was here if you wanted to talk!”

   “I heard you, this is more effective…”

   “No, it isn’t, Sherlock!” John tried to stop the bleeding as best as he could and, thankfully, succeeded. He looked at the fresh wounds. “Mr Holmes? Is that your brother? Father?”

   “Mr Holmes hates it when I call him ‘father’,” Sherlock spat.

   “Don’t tell me he’s your actual biological father, Sherlock!” John was horrified.

   “He is; but wants to forget. He is ashamed of the freak who happens to be his youngest son…”

   “Sherlock, you aren’t a freak!”

   “I am!”

   “I’ll bandage you up and we’ll talk some more about this. Do you want some water?” Sherlock only nodded. “Okay, do you need help?” Sherlock shook his head and tried to get up, but his legs buckled under him. “I’ll help you, come on!”

   Sherlock began to feel extremely dizzy and light headed, his mind was clouded and he wasn’t sure of what he was doing. “You’re hot! Did you know that?”

   “Thanks, mate,” John smiled, “I’ll get you something to eat. I know it’s childish, but I have a stash of biscuits and sweets; I’ll get you some.”

   “It’s better than my stash of razor blades! Yours is probably a little more fun, too! I never used to eat sweets as a child. Bread and water!!! That’s all you’ll ever have in my household!”

   “What are you talking about Sherlock? And what kid doesn’t eat sweets?”

   “All for Mycroft! You’ll eat bread and water; waste away like you deserve, boy!” Sherlock was quoting his father.

   “Sherlock? Who on earth said that to you Sherlock?!”

   “Mr Holmes! I saw things he didn’t like, and so did my mother! He didn’t think we deserved treats. All for Mycroft! My mother was too much like me and I was too much like my mother! Mycroft, little version of him, even down to that smug grin too! If he was here I’d punch it off his face!”

   “Take it easy, Sherlock! Here, eat this.” John handed him a chocolate biscuit and Sherlock just stared at it, unsure. “Eat up, Sherlock. It’ll make you feel a little better.”

   “Is this a trick?” Sherlock looked completely serious.

   “No it isn’t.” What on earth had Sherlock’s father done to him?

   Sherlock took a small, unsure bite and his face instantly lit up, “John this is amazing! I can’t even describe it!”

   “You don’t have to describe it, Sherlock.” John chuckled slightly as Sherlock finished the biscuit. “I know you’ll probably say no, but I think it’s a good idea that we talked about what I saw at the club and… This.”

   “Do we have to talk now?” Sherlock asked.

   “No, we can talk tomorrow.” John smiled. He looked at Sherlock’s other arm and he face dropped. “Sherlock? Why do you have your boyfriend’s name cut into your arm?”

   Sherlock started to giggle a little, “He helped me! Happy memory…” Sherlock smiled.

   ‘What sort of sick freak helps the one they love cut themselves? Why does Sherlock call it a happy memory? Hang on… Is Sherlock crying?’ John thought. He could see Sherlock silently sobbing. “Hey, hey. It’s alright Sherlock. What’s wrong?” John placed a hand on Sherlock’s back.

   “I don’t love Mr Moriarty anymore; I’m scared of him! He’s left his mark on me though, it’s too late! I’m his, whether I want to be or not!” Sherlock cried. Why was he confessing all these things? “He’s too much like Mr Holmes!”

   “Sherlock… Can I ask about the bruise on your cheek again…?” John said softly, “How did it happen?”

   “Mr Moriarty hit me. I called him Jim; he doesn’t like me calling him Jim, only Mr Moriarty.” Years seemed to disappear from Sherlock in front of John. He seemed like a frightened five year old.

   “Does he hit you a lot?” John asked, trying to soothe him as well.

   “Yeah…” Sherlock started to hyperventilate.

   “Sherlock, it’s ok! It’s ok! What usually calms you down?”

   Sherlock tried to breathe enough to tell John. “I know… It’s weird… But Mycroft… used to… sing to… me.”

   “Anything particular?”

   “The… Great Escape… by Pink.”

   John smiled at the thought of a man like Mycroft singing at all, especially a Pink song. “You really like Pink, don’t you?”

   Sherlock nodded. “Do you… know it?”

   “Lucky enough, it’s the only Pink song I know…”

   Sherlock smiled as John pulled him into his chest and began to sing. “I can understand how when the edges are rough. And they cut you like the tiny slivers of glass. And you feel too much. And you don't know how long you're gonna last.”

   _Mycroft barged into Sherlock’s bedroom to find ten-year-old Sherlock using a piece of glass to cut the word ‘worthless’ in small writing in his arm. “Oh Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed._

_S_ _herlock’s eyes were wide and scared. “A-Are you g-going to t-tell Mr Holmes?” He stuttered._

_“Don’t worry, brother mine. I’ll bandage you up and it’ll just be between us.” Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he started to cry._

_“I-I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s ok, Sherlock. I know how you feel; my friend in boarding school does this when he’s sad or angry, too. Go and sit on your bed, I’ll be in in a minute. Keep this towel wrapped around it so you don’t trail blood around your room.”_

   “But everyone you know, is tryna smooth it over. Find a way to make the hurt go away. But everyone you know, is tryna smooth it over. Like you're trying to scream underwater.”

   _“Sherlock, I’m not going to lie to you and say it’s all going to be ok; because it isn’t. You need to talk to me, but not now. Father might be getting suspicious.”_

_“Don’t go, Mycroft.”_

_“Ok, I’ll stay here a few more minutes. Do you want me to sing to you?”_

_“Why would I want that?”_

_“It used to calm you down when you were small, it could work now.”_

   “But I won't let you make the great escape. I'm never gonna watch you checking out of this place. I'm not gonna lose you. 'Cause the passion and pain. Are gonna keep you alive someday. Gonna keep you alive someday.”

   _“Sherlock! Wake up! It’s fine! I’ve stopped the bleeding! It’s fine!” Mycroft yelled at Sherlock, trying to wake him up._

_“What’s this?!” their father yelled._

_“Stupid freak! He did this to himself!” Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to hide the tears as he did as he was expected to; he punched his brother’s face._

_“I’ll call the hospital, I guess. It’ll be worse on our family if he died here with a self-inflicted injury.”_

_“If you don’t want him to die, best call an ambulance.”_

   “I feel like I could wave my fist in front of your face. And you wouldn't flinch or even feel a thing. And you've retreated to your silent corner. Like you decided the fight was over for you.”

_“Wake up, Sherlock. Just wake up. You need to talk to me when you wake up. I don’t want you to die, brother mine. You have an amazing mind; don’t let the world go without it.” Mycroft placed his hand on his brother’s. “Don’t die because of this. It’s so predictable, not like you. Don’t die because of an imbecile like father; don’t die like mother. She was too good for that, you’re too good for that. You’re the closest thing that remains to her. I miss her so much sometimes, then I look at you and it’s like a part of her is still there. Don’t die and leave me alone, leave the human race without that mind of yours. I love you, Sherlock. As much as a brother possibly could.”_

_Sherlock sighed, “Don’t forget leaving Mr Holmes without a punching bag.”_

_“Sherlock? How long have you been awake?”_

_“Since you came in. Nice speech. Do you really feel that way?”_

_Mycroft tightened his grip around Sherlock’s hand. “Of course I do, brother mine. Why would you think I didn’t?”_

_“You hit me in the face…”_

_“Father came. You know what he expects me to do; I hate myself after doing things like that to you, Sherlock.”_

_“Just so I know which Mycroft is the real Mycroft…”_

_“You were awake when I hit you?”_

_“Yeah, I heard father come across the hall; thought it’d be safer.”_

_“I’m just going to tell the doctor you’re awake. Do you remember what happened?”_

_“I cut too close to my wrist, too deep. I lost too much blood.”_

_“We still need that talk, Sherlock.”_

_“Later.”_

   “Everyone you know, is tryna smooth it over. Find a way to make the hurt go away. Everyone you know, is tryna smooth it over. Everyone needs a floor they can fall through. But I won't let you make the great escape. I'm never gonna watch you checking out of this place. I'm not gonna lose you. 'Cause the passion and pain. Are gonna keep you alive someday. They're gonna keep you alive someday.”

   _Sherlock stared at his father from the floor. “You are a worthless freak!”_

_“And you’re a psychopath!” Sherlock snapped without thinking._

_“Shut up, freak!” Mycroft defended. His voice was threatening but his eyes were kind, they seemed to say ‘please don’t say anything else to upset him, Sherlock. I don’t want you to have the same fate as mother’._

_A doctor absent-mindedly walked into the room to check on Sherlock when he noticed he was on the floor clutching his face. “What happened in here?”_

_“Sherlock walked into the door frame of the bathroom. He’s always been a clumsy one,” Sherlock’s father held out his hand for Sherlock, “Come on, son. I’ll help you up.”_

_As his father helped him up, he pretended to slip and let go of Sherlock’s hand. “Ah!” Sherlock screamed as his head hit the wall._

_Mycroft ran over to him and made sure he was alright in what his father assumed was an act._

_“Oh, I’m so sorry son! I slipped, I didn’t mean to!” Mr Holmes was a flawless liar._

   “Oh, Terrified of the dark, but not if you go with me. And I won't need a pill to make me numb. And I wrote the book on runnin'. But that chapter of my life will soon be done.”

   _“Let me out! Please, Mr Holmes!” Sherlock’s tears flowed down his cheeks._

_“You can come out when you stop cutting yourself!” his father growled._

_“Would you like a cigarette, father? I’ll keep an eye on the freak.” Mycroft’s satin words filled the air._

_“This is a good boy. Learn what is to be one, freak!” As Mr Holmes footfalls faded into silence, Mycroft set to work._

_“It’s ok Sherlock! I’m getting you out; I’ll have to put you back in again, but you’ll have some time out of this vile wardrobe!” Mycroft started to pick the lock._

_“No Mycroft! You’ll get in trouble!”_

_“I don’t care.”_

_The door creaked open to reveal an awful sight. There were scratches on the inside of the door smeared with blood and a large piece of fingernail was imbedded in the scratches._

_“We’ll have to patch it up after your punishment. Does it hurt?”_

_“Nothing hurts very much anymore, Mycroft.”_

_“Oh Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a hug._

   “I'm the king of the great escape. You're not gonna watch me checking out of this place. You're not gonna lose me. 'Cause the passion and pain. Are gonna keep us alive someday. Yeah the passion and the pain. Are gonna keep us alive someday, someday.”

   Maybe Mycroft was a good brother after all.

   “Thank you, John.” Sherlock sighed as John finished dressing his wound.

   “Anytime, Sherlock. It’s a little crazy that we’re friends after only a day!” John laughed.

   “We’re friends? Never had one of those before…”

   “You’re kidding!”

   “No. Why would I?”

   “Get some sleep, we’ll talk tomorrow,”

   “Ok.”

   Sherlock had fallen asleep in John’s bed, so John moved over onto Sherlock’s bed. He stared at his new friend sleeping for a little while, he looked so peaceful. John’s mind kept running over what Sherlock had already told him; it sounded awful. He hoped he would be able to sleep after hearing Sherlock talk about his father and boyfriend.


	5. You have the right to put yourself first

   Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open to find John sitting on a chair by his bed. “What are you doing John?” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

   “Our conversation; remember?” John answered.

   “Don’t you have a class soon?” Sherlock deflected.

   “Not for another hour and I’m ready. That gives us forty five minutes to have a little chat.” John smiled as his genius friend stumbled over his words.

   “John; I know I said I’d tell you, but Jim’s too dangerous!” Sherlock was certainly concerned.

   “Sherlock, you’ll be fine; there are people who can help you deal with this sort of thing-!”

   “I’m not worried for myself, John; I’m worried for you!” John just stared at Sherlock, slack-jawed, “Do you want to know what happened to my roommate? Jim threw him down a flight of stairs. He broke his back and snapped his spinal cord… He’s dangerous, John.”

   “We need to get him away from you. I’ll be fine; I can handle myself!”

   “My last roommate thought the same thing… Let’s not risk it, John. I’m not sure if my conscience can take much more…”

   “No, Sherlock. We’re at least talking about this. Jim doesn’t need to know.”

   Sherlock sighed, feeling like he had to answer John’s questions at some point because of the care the young man showed towards him, but he couldn’t because he could handle the abuse and would not have other people put in danger. He decided he’d answer the bare minimum to the questions and hope Jim didn’t find out.

   Sherlock nodded. “Ok. First things first, when did you start your relationship with Jim?”

   A safe question, “February last year. He asked me out.”

   “When did he start to hit you?”

   “As abuse? A few weeks after we got together; I forgot the riding crop.”

   “Why did you need a riding crop?”

   “I believe the accepted term is ‘recreational scalding’.”

   “Oh. Um… You’re into… that sort of… thing.”

   “I’m not, Jim is. I didn’t want to let him down, so I just… went with it.”

   “Sherlock, if you’re uncomfortable doing something, you have the right to say!” John was a little shocked.

   “It was my first ever relationship, I’ve never been loved before so I wanted to make sure he stayed. I thought it would make him happy.”

   “You have the right to put yourself first…”

   “When you’re a person like me, you tend to want to do anything to make anyone who stay near you stay there as long as possible. Whatever it takes.”

   “What do you mean someone like you?” John frowned as he placed a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

   “Damaged. Broken. A freak.” Sherlock willed himself not to cry, not again. He barely knew John and hated looking so pathetic.

   “You are not like that, Sherlock. Anyone would be lucky to have you!” Sherlock scoffed, “no, don’t give me that, it’s true!”

   “Thank you, I think.” Sherlock smiled a weak smile.

   “That’s alright, anytime.” John returned to his questions, “How do you feel when he hits you?”

   “Worthless. But I also feel like I somehow… deserve it.”

   “Sherlock, you don’t deserve it. Those feelings probably stem from your father’s abuse. You don’t deserve to be in an abusive relationship.”

   “Are you sure that you didn’t take psychology?” Sherlock laughed emptily, “but, with all due respect, you don’t know that I don’t deserve it-”

   “Sherlock, nobody deserves it!” John yelled. Sherlock instinctively curled in on himself and shielded his face. Sherlock was trembling. “Oh God! Sherlock, it’s ok. I’m not mad, I’m not going to hit you, it’s going to be alright.”

   Sherlock uncurled himself and let his guard slip. “Sorry, instinct.” He excused plainly.

   John looked at his watch. “Oh shit! Sorry, Sherlock; I have to go! Meet you here at lunch, we’ll talk some more then!” John rushed out the door before Sherlock had the chance to say anything. He was not going to be late for his first class.


	6. Not fine! So not fine!

   John had had an exhausting few hours. Pre-med was a difficult subject, but he wanted to pass and had the will-power to study. He approached the dorm room door and went to knock, but his eye caught on a tie around the doorknob.

   John laughed. Did Sherlock know how cheesy this was? He was about to walk away when he heard a faint sound from inside.

   “Mr… Moriarty… Please… I’ve had… enough. Can’t… Breathe.” It was Sherlock!

   “Sherlock? You ok?” John called, hoping he was. He gave it a few seconds and when there was no reply, John barged into the room.

   “Hey! Get out!” Jim yelled.

   John’s eyes lingered on Sherlock, still being strangled, his lips starting to turn blue. “Let go of him! You’re going to kill him!”

   Jim snorted as if to say ‘who cares’. That’s when John had enough. He strode confidently over to the psychopath, grabbed his t-shirt and yanked him out of the room and launched him into the hall. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with!” Jim kept yelling.

   “I’m now going to save my friend. Don’t come near him again, if you know what’s good for you!” He slammed the door in Jim’s face and sprinted towards Sherlock. The doctor in him knew what to do. He pinched Sherlock’s nostrils closed, opened his mouth and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

   A moment that felt like a life-time passed before Sherlock spluttered back into consciousness. Sherlock, remembering the last few seconds before losing conscious, leapt up from the bed. “Oh God! Dear God! Fucking hell!” Sherlock began to pace obsessively; five steps and a turn every time.

   “Sherlock, calm down. You’re fine,” John attempted to soothe.

   “Not fine! So not fine! I almost died! Shit! I almost died!” a tremor began in Sherlock’s hand.

   “You’re alive, Sherlock. It’s ok. I got here in time.” John pulled Sherlock in for a comforting hug and the young man crumpled before him. John managed to get Sherlock on his bed before he hit the floor.

   “What if you don’t get here on time when this happens again?! Oh my God, I’m going to die! What am I going to do?!”

   “Sherlock, there’s a simple answer. You need to report him to the police…”

   Sherlock’s answer was a surprise to John, “yes… I do.”

   “Do you want to do it now? Do you need me to help you?”

   “Can you go to the police station with me? I could use some support.”

   “Of course I can, Sherlock.”

   “Thank you.” From Sherlock, this wasn’t even needed. He knew Sherlock deserved better.

   “Are you going to tell them about the child abuse as well?” John asked.

   “No, there isn’t enough proof. I hate myself because I didn’t tell anyone how my mother really did die.”

   “Your mother’s dead?”

   Sherlock nodded. “My father pushed her down the stairs.” A tear dropped from Sherlock’s eye. He loved his mother deeply and hated thinking about her death.

   “We’ll be able to stop Jim hitting you at least. I’ll email my parents and ask if you can come over for Christmas, I’ll explain the situation.”

   “Thank you, John.”

   The two released themselves from the hug. “Come on, let’s go. Last lesson can wait; this is so much more important.”

   “Ok, let’s go.” With that, they were out of the door.


	7. Una Hudson and Officer Lestrade

   The officer at the desk looked intimidating, definitely. Sherlock could feel his words leave his mind. The officer was heavy-built and looked like he was easily able to disintegrate Sherlock if the whim took him.

   John guided Sherlock over to the desk. “We’re here to report a crime.” John informed confidently.

   “What crime?” the officer’s voice was warm, but it still froze Sherlock to the spot. “Is he alright?”

   “Yeah, just a little shaken. He’s the victim; I’m just here for emotional support.”

   “You alright, mate?” Sherlock nodded in reply to the officer. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. My name’s Officer Lestrade.” The man came out from behind the desk to try to make Sherlock more comfortable.

   “I think this might move faster if I inform you of the crime…” John sighed at the catatonic Sherlock.

   “Of course.” Lestrade accepted.

   “Well… It’s his boyfriend, Jim Moriarty. He beats Sherlock.” John began.

   “Oh. Do you know what the most recent event of abuse is?” Lestrade asked.

   “It happened only ten minutes ago, actually. I come back to my dorm room in university for lunch and to talk to Sherlock, because he admitted the abuse last night, and heard some faint noises from inside. I listened and heard that Sherlock was begging his boyfriend to stop and that he couldn’t breathe. I called for him and asked if he was ok, I waited a few moments and heard nothing so I ran into the room and see Jim Moriarty throttling him. Sherlock’s lips were beginning to turn blue and he went limp, so I dragged the boyfriend out of the door and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

   John turned to the officer who was trying to comfort Sherlock after his ordeal. “Is that why he has a, quite frankly, spectacular bruise on his cheek?”

   “Yes. The injury occurred sometime yesterday morning.” John definitely was still in doctor-mode.

   “Do you know why Mr Moriarty inflicted these injuries?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock flinched at the name, into John’s shoulder.

   “I know that the boyfriend back-handed him because Sherlock called him by his first name. Sherlock is forced to call him… Mr Moriarty. As for the strangulation… No idea. Sherlock was pretty coherent back at the room, but that was probably adrenalin fuelled as he did freak out a little, mind, not that I wouldn’t do the same if I almost died.”

   “I refused to be whipped with the riding crop.” Sherlock whimpered into John’s shoulder.

   “That’s the other thing. His boyfriend is a sadist and has been making Sherlock partake in strangulation and beatings with riding crops and other ‘recreational scolding’.” John added.

   “Well, we shall definitely pay Mr Moriarty a visit!” Lestrade announced, “Sherlock… I think it would be a good idea to see a therapist. She might be able to help you get over this…” Lestrade’s voice was calm and comforting.

   “Yeah, Sherlock; might be a good idea.” John agreed.

   “Our therapist is in today and not busy, she could probably see you now if I ask nicely enough.” Sherlock nodded into John’s shoulder. “Ok. Come on you two, follow me.” John couldn’t help but marvel at how kind the officer had been.

   They walked down the corridor and into a small room. It was beige with a colourful sofa and arm chair; a bright red. There were posters on the walls, mostly inspirational dribble, and plants in the corner. “Typical therapist’s office,” mumbled John. Sherlock made a mental note to think about this phrase later.

   “Oh, hello Greg!” the therapist exclaimed. She was an older woman with short blonde hair. “Who’s this young man?” She asked, looking at Sherlock with kind eyes as he buried his head even further into John’s shoulder.

   “This is Sherlock,” John explained, “We came to the station to report his boyfriend.”

   “According to John here, Sherlock has had a near death experience about twenty minutes ago by now, right?” John nodded at Lestrade, “his boyfriend strangled him because he refused to take part in… a rough bedroom activity.”

   “Oh no! Do you fancy a cuppa, dear? Calm yourself down a bit?” Sherlock nodded into John’s shoulder, “There we are. I’ll go get some for us now. Do you want John to stay?”

   Another nod.

   “I guess I can always borrow notes, this is more important.” John shrugged the vacant shoulder.

   “I’m guessing you’re in that posh university up the road, then.” The therapist asked.

   “We both are.” John corrected.

   “It’s nice that you are both friends, then.” She added before she left.

   “I’m afraid I’ll need your full names, for the reports.” Lestrade smiled.

   “My name’s John Hamish Watson and his is-”

   “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Sherlock whimpered.

   “Out of your three names, two being relatively normal, you pick Sherlock?” John laughed

   “More interesting,” he mumbled. Sherlock seemed to be recovering a little.

   “Ok, I’ll leave you to it. We’ll have Jim Moriarty in custody as soon as we can.” Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mrs Hudson is an amazing therapist; she’ll have you on the mend in minutes!” He smiled as he left the room to file the report.

   “Come on Sherlock, let’s sit down.” Sherlock nodded as they walked over to the bright sofa. Sherlock managed to make himself release John and brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

   “How are you feeling?” John asked.

   “Simply… Scared… For you. You said you pulled Jim off of me; that means he’ll go after you. Burn the heart out of you.”

   “I’ll be fine, William.” John smiled.

   “Please call me Sherlock! I hate being called William!”

   “Ok, Sherlock.”

   Mrs Hudson entered the room again with three cups of tea. “Are you feeling a little better, Sherlock?” This was not the usual patronising tone of the therapist, but sincere.

   “A little, thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

   “Call me Una, dear,” she smiled.

   “Una,” he corrected.

   “How are you feeling after what happened?” She smiled kindly.

   “A little shell-shocked; and anxious for John’s safety.”

   “Not your own safety?” She narrowed her gaze inquisitively at Sherlock.

   “Tell you the truth, I barely feel pain anymore. Jim has violent tendencies and after what happened to Tom – my last roommate – I’m more scared for John.”

   “What happened to your last roommate?”

   “Jim broke his back. He’s paralysed for life.”

   “Did you report him?”

   “No. We were both threatened and too scared to call the police, so we never acted on it.”

   “Did you inform officer Lestrade about this?”

   John then decided to start talking again, “No, I’ll go find him and tell him that Sherlock has another report to file.”

   He had gotten up to leave when Sherlock grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave.” John smiled at Sherlock sweetly. He was more like a child when he was scared.

   “I’ll only be gone a few minutes. I’m sure Una will take good care of you.”

   Una smiled at Sherlock when he let go of John’s hand. “It’s good that you two have such a bond. Sherlock will need a strong friend.”

   As John left the room, Una continued to ask questions, comfort Sherlock and other such things therapists do. John was happy that Sherlock was getting help; he had been through a lot in his life.

   When he returned, Sherlock looked a little better again. He turned to John, “I was just telling Una about what I did last night,” he informed.

   “Yeah, you scared me a bit, Sherlock. Strange how fast we’ve become friends.” John shrugged.

   “I wouldn’t mind seeing those scars and hearing the stories that you can remember about them,” Una requested.

   Sherlock looked at John who gave him an affirming nod. “Ok,” Sherlock agreed.

   Sherlock removed one arm from his jacket and John did his best not to frown at the white words. Sherlock pointed to a word which read ‘slut’. “I made this on the day Jim first hit me as punishment. I had tripped and accidently pulled him down on top of me. I started giggling because I thought it was a little funny, but he slapped me and called me a ‘slut’ and that I shouldn’t laugh like that after he could have hit the ground. I was so hurt and couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I made this. The emotion seemed to go away, numb.”

   “He didn’t have a right to do that Sherlock; I probably would have done the same as you,” John comforted.

   “How about this?” Una asked, pointing to his scar that read ‘Jim Moriarty’.

   “I told Jim about the cutting and showed him my scars; but, instead of freaking out, he smiled and said ‘let me help’. I gave him my arm and he cut that into my skin, making his mark on me, making me his.”

   “This is important for you to hear, dear. You do not belong to Jim Moriarty. You are an amazingly sweet boy, underneath all that, who deserves so much better than this.” Una explained.

   The therapy session lasted for another half an hour and was quite reassuring for Sherlock. John was happy to see his friend being helped.

   By the time they left the station, purple bruises displayed themselves around Sherlock’s neck. “Looks like I’m wearing a scarf for the next few days…” Sherlock commented as they walked back to Baker Street Academy.

   “Don’t hide them, Sherlock. You should be proud! Plus, it’s meant to be warm tomorrow, you’ll look strange with a scarf on and it will be uncomfortable. I don’t think you should wear your jacket if it’s too warm either. You barely take it off…”

   “Yeah… Why shouldn’t I be proud? Una said it’s a good idea to be more confident about them because they are proof of how strong I can be. Una really is an excellent therapist!” Sherlock smiled.

   “Yeah, she’s the best,” John confirmed.

   “If I’m hitting a nerve here, just tell me to shut up, but… What did you mean by your comment earlier? Typical therapist’s office? Have you been in many before?”

   “It’s fine, Sherlock. I haven’t got a problem telling you; you’ve told me so much, it’s only fair.” John took a breath. “When I was five, I went into therapy. I had night terrors and anxiety attacks after witnessing a rather gory murder in the woods. The murderer had gutted the victim and skinned them. It freaked me out.”

   “I can’t say I blame you. It wouldn’t have fazed me, but even back then I had a strange attraction to blood and gore.”

   “Interesting… I think.”

   They talked all the way back to the room and fell asleep with Sherlock trying to deduce things about the killer. John wasn’t surprised that Sherlock couldn’t come up with a lot. Tonight had been good for Sherlock; tomorrow should bring the good news of Jim Moriarty being arrested.


	8. Covering the brand and Anderson

   The bathroom floor was cold through Sherlock’s jeans. He held the razor in his hand again; he did not feel pain or emotion, but he needed to remove Jim Moriarty’s mark. He was going to cover it with something else; something that meant more to him. To turn a tear and a brand into a smile and commemoration. He knew what to write; it was perfect. It was something that always made him smile and feel better.

   The cuts were only just deep enough so the new scars would cover the old scars. Sherlock mopped up the blood from the floor with paper towels and disposed of them in one of the other restrooms around the university; to avoid being caught by John.

   Sherlock couldn’t wait for when John had finished his classes as he had done something for John that he was quite proud of. Only an hour to go.

  
………………………

  
    John was exhausted. His teacher, Mr Anderson, insisted on tearing him to pieces in front of the entire class. “So, Mr Watson, what is the endocrine system? Oh, that’s right! You don’t know because you skipped the lecture yesterday!” Mr Anderson could only be described as an idiotic prick.

   John had had enough of the jokes; he had intended to keep the reason why he was away a secret, for Sherlock’s sake, but he was feeling angry and selfish. “Do you want to know why I wasn’t here!? I was saving my best friends life after he’d almost been strangled to death by his abusive boyfriend! He wasn’t breathing and had cyanosis! We left so we could file a police report after he’s taken year of abuse and he and I spent the rest of the day in a therapist’s office!”

   Mr Anderson was speechless along with the rest of the class. After a good quarter of an hour, he continued with the lecture. He didn’t say another word to John.

   As the class left and John picked up his notes and satchel, he noticed Irene standing next to him, “He’s lucky to have you,” she smiled faintly, “Is he alright?”

   “Sort of; as ok as he could be after an experience like that. He has some more bruises but, from what he’s told me, he’s used to much worse.”

   “Is it Sherlock? I see him with a lot of bruises. He says that it’s because he’s clumsy, but have you seen the tricks he can do on that bike? Someone who can do tricks like that isn’t clumsy…”

   “Please don’t let him know that I told you. I want to respect his privacy, but Anderson is just so fucking annoying and condescending! I didn’t know someone as dumb as he is could be condescending!”

   “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sherlock I know. He is a good person under all the weirdness; mind, we all have our issues. And yeah, Anderson is the worst teacher in this school!” She stopped laughing, “I have to go. Look after him, John Watson.”

   “Goodbye.” Irene left the room. John decided to go straight to the dorm room, tired from the day’s lectures. He wanted to see Sherlock; he knew that seeing him would make him feel better after Anderson's lecture.


	9. Sherlock's gift and Don't Let Me Get Me

“Hi Sherlock! You ok?” John called into the room.  
“As fine as can be expected. Did Anderson give you much grief after you missed his lecture yesterday?” Sherlock asked.  
“I managed to shut the prick up,” John beamed.  
“Good! Anderson is the most infuriating kind of idiot; the one that is so stupid he refuses to believe it!”  
“Don’t get on with him, do you?”   
“Of course not!” Sherlock smiled, remembering his surprise, “I have something to show you!” he grabbed John’s hand as he ran out of the door, pulling him along to the car park where his surprise was waiting.  
………………………  
“Close your eyes,” Sherlock instructed when they got to the car park. John did as he was told, even if he was confused.   
Sherlock led him over to the surprise. He was buzzing with anticipation for John’s reaction. This was the least he could do for John after all the support he had been given. “Open them!” Sherlock beamed, motioning to a beautiful, shining, silver BMW 330Xi Sedan with the biggest red bow John had ever seen on the roof.  
“What’s this?” John asked, stunned. It was beautiful.   
“I called in a favour. Don’t worry about tax, my brother’s taking care of that. He’ll send you an email ASAP explaining it all.”  
“I think this is a bit much, Sherlock…”  
Sherlock turned to face John and placed his hands softly on his shoulders. “No… It isn’t. You’ve done so much for me, I –”  
“What’ll happen if your dad finds out?!”  
“He won’t. As far as he knows, this is Mycroft’s new car –”  
“Thank you, Sherlock!” John pulled Sherlock into him and planted a kiss on his lips. Sherlock was speechless. He knew his feelings for John, but didn’t expect things to progress so fast at John’s hands. “Oh God! I’ve made it weird, haven’t I? Sorry, I couldn’t help myself –”  
Sherlock re-engaged the kiss. “It’s fine, believe me!”  
The two stayed there in an anxious silence for a moment before John suggested, “do you want to go back to the room?”  
“God, I thought you’d never ask!”  
………………………  
The door flew open with a crash. Sherlock began to tear off John’s blazer as he threw him down on his bed. John pulled Sherlock’s t-shirt off as Sherlock unbuttoned John’s shirt. The kisses were passionate and full of heat. This was actually happening.  
John’s eyes caught on a bandage around Sherlock’s arm. There was blood starting to form a clear indication of the words the cuts formed; ‘John Watson’. John immediately ceased the kissing and pushed Sherlock off of him.  
“John… What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked; his expression was so childlike, it tore at John’s heart.  
“What’s that?” John had a firmness to his voice be that Sherlock hadn’t heard before.   
“John – you don’t understand. It’s to cover up Jim Moriarty’s name! Even if we didn’t stay together forever, I still want to remember you! You helped me get away from Jim!”  
“You’re too broken…”  
“John?”  
“What was I thinking?”  
“No, John. Don’t do this. It’s you and me against the world, remember? It’s fine. I’ll never do it again; just don’t do… this.”  
“I have a future to focus on Sherlock. I can’t get involved with someone so damaged –”  
“You can fix me! You have the power to, John!”  
“I have to study. No time for a lost cause.” And with that, John left the room. He would probably ask Irene if he could stay with her and Elspeth.  
Sherlock grabbed his guitar and started to play. He would do as he always did in these situations; he’d sing.  
“Never win first place, I don't support the team. I can't take direction, and my socks are never clean.”  
“Sherlock – what is this on my bed?” John asked.  
“A sock.”  
“Whose sock?”  
“My sock.”  
“Ew! Gross! It absolutely STINKS!”   
“Of course it stinks! I’ve worn it for a week on the trot.”  
“You – You are disgusting!”  
“Only trying to save water.”  
“Try saving my sense of smell next time! Jesus, Sherlock!”  
“Sorry, John.”  
“No, it’s fine, I guess. Just stinks.”  
“Teachers dated me, my parents hated me. I was always in a fight cuz I can't do nothing right.”  
“What did you say about John Watson?!”Sherlock exploded.  
“He’s weird! What do you care?” Sally sneered.  
“Take it back.” He growled.  
“Make me, freak!”  
Sherlock leapt at Sally, punching. She fought back, of course. Sherlock didn’t agree that boys shouldn’t hit girls; it always seemed sexist.  
“Every day I fight a war against the mirror. I can't take the person staring back at me. I'm a hazard to myself.”  
“Sherlock? You ok?” John called.  
“Yes, but can you go to Tesco and get me some BRUNETTE hair die? Please?” Sherlock shouted from the bathroom.  
“What’s the matter?”  
“Um… Had a bit of an accident. Ammonia, it’s seems to have bleached my hair.”  
“I’m coming in, Sherlock. You could have chemical damage to your scalp and lungs.”  
“No! No, don’t come in!”  
It was too late. John was standing in the doorway, staring at a bright-pink-haired Sherlock. John burst out laughing. “Ammonia doesn’t turn your hair PINK, Sherlock!”  
“Can you just get me some hair die so I can fix my lapse in judgement?”  
“Sure thing! If you let me take one pic on my phone! Don’t worry, I won’t show anyone.”  
“Fine!”  
“Don't let me get me. I'm my own worst enemy. It’s bad when you annoy yourself. So irritating. Don't want to be my friend no more. I want to be somebody else.”


	10. Candy Man and Goodbye to Sandra Dee

Weeks had passed since that night. John felt guilty about his reaction but couldn’t face Sherlock – not yet.  
John had joined a singing club – not a band or a choir; no one really knew what to call it. They were practising for the Christmas show that the university thought it may be fun to hold. He and two others were going to perform ‘Candyman’ in a week’s time; of course, he was the lead singer. He loved that song and didn’t care what others thought about him anymore.  
He was dressed in a Second World War style military outfit which he didn’t look that bad in. “Ok, guys! Let’s start! Jeff, you ready?”  
“Don’t worry, John. We’ll get this down!” Jeff called.  
“Sure we will,” John mumbled.  
The music started. Jeff began the chant. “Tarzan and Jane were swinging on a vine. Sipping from a bottle of vodka double wine.”  
Ella, the other performer, whispered, “Sweet sugar candy man.”  
“I met him out for dinner on a Friday night. He really had me working up an appetite. He had tattoos up and down his arm.” John sang.  
Ella and John then sang together, “There's nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm.”  
John sang another line on his own, “He's a one stop shop, makes the panties drop.”  
All three sang in unison, “He's a sweet-talking, sugar coated candy man. A sweet-talking, sugar coated candyman.”  
Sherlock stirred from the floor of the auditorium. He had come in to think in silence which was now compromised. He peered over the row of chairs in front of him to see John in that vintage uniform. ‘God, he looks great in uniform!’ Sherlock thought. He was careful to keep his head low so he could watch him without being seen.  
Sherlock let his mind wonder. He thought of how he could get John to come back to him when he remembered something from a musical his mother had taken him to once; ‘Sandy, you must start anew. Don't you know, what you must do. Hold your head high, take a deep breath and sigh. Goodbye to Sandra Dee’. Upon thinking back to that, Sherlock knew exactly what to do.


	11. Glitter In The Air and James Blunt

One last performance at the Panther club, an end of an era. The drummer had been reluctant, but Sherlock knew that he needed to do this. Just one more.  
Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John was at the bar of the club with Irene and Elspeth. “I don’t know you two… All I can remember about this place is Sherlock on stage singing and me thinking how attractive he was.”  
“This is what you need John,” Elspeth reasoned, “A night off from practise and studying.”  
“Molly’s right, John,” Irene smiled.  
“Do I have to tell you every five minutes?! Call. Me. Elspeth!”  
“Calm down, Elspeth,” John comforted, “she’s doing it to mess with you.”  
“Oh look! Surprise performance! It doesn’t happen very often, but it’s almost always great stuff.” Irene noticed.  
The lights went up on stage to illuminate Sherlock and his guitar. “Oh shit! Do we have to go now?” Elspeth sighed begrudgingly.  
“No, it’s fine.” John dismissed.   
“Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands? Closed your eyes and trusted, just trusted?” Sherlock sang.  
It was John’s turn to remember.  
“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” John asked. It was obvious that Sherlock had been crying.  
“You’ll tell the school, or the police, that can’t happen.”  
“Trust me, Sherlock. I won’t tell anyone.”  
Sherlock looked at John, trust seemed to flood through him. “Jim hit me again…”  
“Have you ever thrown a fistful of glitter in the air? Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, ‘I just don't care.’?”  
“Go away, Jim!” John screamed. Jim had turned up at the room in handcuffs with a police escort.  
“John, you know I wouldn’t do anything to him…” Jim said slimily.  
“You would, and did, Jim. You don’t deserve him.”  
“Do you know what you’re doing?! I will burn you, John Watson!”  
“I don’t care.” And with that, Jim was led off for his prison sentence.  
“It's only half past the point of no return. The tip of the iceberg, the sun before the burn. The thunder before the lightning and the breath before the phrase. Have you ever felt this way?”   
John took a breath. Sherlock was an amazing person, no matter how damaged. What had he done?   
“Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone.”  
“John, just talk to me!” Sherlock pleaded from outside Irene’s room. It was a few minutes after John had stormed out of their room.  
“I’m not ready to talk!”  
“Ok…” Sherlock bit back the tears, “just tell me when you are.”  
“Go away, Sherlock!”  
“Who am I kidding; you’re nothing like me! So I’m probably better off!” Sherlock stormed back to his room. He was alone.  
“Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry? Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?”  
“John, I know something’s the matter.” Sherlock purred. As Sherlock brushed John’s arm with his soft, warm hands; the emotions and courage to confide in a friend seemed to come from nowhere.   
John collapsed into Sherlock’s touch, tears streaming down his face, “Harry called. She was drunk again.”  
“It's only half past the point of oblivion. The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run. The breath before the kiss, and the fear before the phrase. Have you ever felt this way?”  
“I’m a horrible person,” John whispered to himself.  
“There you are. Sitting in the garden. Clutching my coffee. Calling me sugar. You called me sugar.”  
“Here’s your coffee,” John handed Sherlock the black ceramic mug.  
“Thanks, sugar,” Sherlock sighed absent-mindedly.  
“What?”  
“Um… Sugar! Is there sugar in this coffee?”  
“Yes, two lumps, like you asked.”  
“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled.  
“Have you ever wished for an endless night? Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight?”  
Sherlock and John were giggling at each other’s stories. It was two in the morning, but they didn’t care. John couldn’t help thinking that he’d love to spend many more nights with Sherlock.  
“Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself will it ever get better than tonight? Tonight.”  
With that, the stage was in darkness yet again. John knew that the last thing Sherlock said to him had been right; they were too different.  
“What’s wrong, John?” Irene asked.  
“I think Sherlock had a point when he said we were too different…”  
“That sucks John,” Elspeth shrugged.   
“I’m different to people like you and him. I’m not a fan of rock music. I’m not into ACDC or Pink or anyone like that. Tell you the truth, my favourite singer is James Blunt!” John sighed.  
“Well, we still think you’re kinda cool, John,” Irene smiled while she punched him in the arm.  
A song John vaguely recognised as ‘Trouble’ by Pink boomed through the speakers of the club.  
“I'm trouble. Yeah trouble now. I'm trouble ya'll. I disturb my town. I'm trouble. Yeah trouble now. I'm trouble ya'll. I got trouble in my town.”  
“But we won’t be different for much longer!” John exclaimed.  
“What?” Irene and Elspeth questioned in unison.  
“Girls, how’d you like to go shopping? I’ll explain on the way back to the dorm room.”  
Irene and Elspeth agreed, unsure of what to expect. But John had a plan.  
………………………  
John didn't know, but Sherlock had heard him talk about how different they were just before he left. ‘Interesting,’ Sherlock thought, ‘he likes James Blunt’.


	12. I love you just the way you want to be

It was the day of the performance and Sherlock was back stage; he was on next. He was holding his wooden Tanglewood TW70HSR-B acoustic guitar. He had changed his appearance, his tastes and, hopefully, his personality for John. He died his hair back to auburn, his natural hair colour, and was wearing blue jeans with a white t-shirt and brown cardigan.  
The organiser stood on the stage to announce Sherlock’s act, “And now, here’s Sherlock Holmes singing Bonfire Heart by James Blunt!”  
There were a few gasps from the crowd upon hearing the song choice, but Sherlock expected that. It was different to what he usually sung. Sherlock started to play off-stage, allowing the headset to pick up the sound of the guitar. He was going to walk on playing.  
John snuck into the hall; it had taken him longer than he thought to get ready, he had missed the announcement on who was performing, but heard the strumming of a guitar from off-stage. A guitarist with ginger hair strode onto the stage. To John’s confusion, there were heckles of ‘that’s not him’ and ‘fake’. But then, he started to sing.  
“Your mouth is a revolver. Firing bullets in the sky. Your love is like a soldier. Loyal 'til you die. And I’ve been looking at the stars. For a long, long time. I’ve been putting out fires. All my life. Everybody wants a flame. They don’t want to get burnt. And today is our time.”  
‘Oh my God… that’s Sherlock!’ John thought.  
“Days like these lead to... Nights like this lead to… Love like ours. You light the spark in my bonfire heart. People like us—we don’t. Need that much, just some – One that starts. Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”  
‘Why is he dressed like that? Why is he singing that? And why is he GINGER?!’ John thought, rather confused.  
“This world is getting colder. Strangers passing by. No one offers you a shoulder. No one looks you in the eye. But I’ve been looking at you. For a long, long time. Just trying to break through. Trying to make you mine. Everybody wants a flame. They don’t want to get burnt. Well, today is our time.”  
Sherlock walked down the steps at the side of the stage. He was making his way to John.  
“Days like these lead to... Nights like this lead to. Love like ours. You light the spark in my bonfire heart. People like us—we don’t. Need that much, just some – One that starts. Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”  
Sherlock tried to find John in the crowd. He searched each row as he passed.  
“Our bonfire hearts. Our bonfire hearts. Our bonfire hearts. You light the spark. People like us—we don’t. Need that much, just some – One that starts. Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”  
Sherlock couldn’t find John.  
“Days like these lead to... Nights like this lead to. Love like ours. You light the spark in my bonfire heart. People like us—we don’t. Need that much, just some – One that starts. Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”  
John bolted from his seat the aisle. He needed to see Sherlock. ‘There he – what has he done to his hair… and his clothes?’ Sherlock questioned internally. He strode over to John and stood only inches away from him.  
Days like these lead to... Nights like this lead to. Love like ours. You light the spark in my bonfire heart. People like us—we don’t. Need that much, just some – One that starts. Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”  
“Sherlock! What have you done to yourself?” John chuckled.  
“I could ask you the same!” Sherlock stared at John’s black jeans, skull t-shirt, faux leather jacket and newly died dark brown hair.  
The organiser re-emerged on stage. “And now, here’s Elspeth Hooper singing ‘Bridge of Light’ by Pink.”  
“Why did you do this to yourself Sherlock? You were happy the way you were!”  
“Just when you think. Hope is lost.” Elspeth sang.  
“You said I was too broken for you. I knew we were very different. Then; I remembered something… Well that’s not important. But I thought that if I changed, it’d make you feel like you could love me.”  
“And giving up. Is all you got.” She sang.  
“Sherlock, I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. I was a dick! Maybe even more than Anderson!”  
“Don’t overreact, John. No one’s a bigger dick than him,” Sherlock smiled.  
More singing, “And blue turns black. Your confidence is cracked. There seems no turning back from here.”  
“Why did you feel you needed to change?” Sherlock asked.  
“Sometimes there isn't an obvious explanation,” she sang.  
“You said we were too different. I wanted to change that.”  
“Why the holiest hearts can feel the strongest palpitations,” the singing continued.  
“You never need to change, John. I love you, whole-heartedly, just the way you want to be.”  
“I love you too, Sherlock.”   
The two kissed. It was a kiss that had an undefined initiator. It was a movie-style kiss; deep and passionate with an unusual sense of innocence to it.  
“That's when you can build a bridge of light. That's what turns the wrong so right. That's when you can't give up the fight. That's when love turns night time into day. That's when loneliness goes away. That's why you gotta be strong tonight. Only love can build us a bridge of light.”  
The entire audience cheered. It definitely seemed like a work of Hollywood. Their foreheads rested together. They were all they needed; just each other.


	13. Epilogue

John and Sherlock sat hand in hand at the kitchen table. "I heard the good news, Sherlock; you're a very brave person to have gone through all that in your short life," Mrs Watson smiled.  
"Good result, isn't it 'Lock?" John grinned. He had been there for his boyfriend and was proud of him.  
"Yeah. Mr Moriarty and Mr Holmes won't be bothering me anymore!" Sherlock beamed happily.  
"At least Jim didn't throw you down a flight of stairs!" John added, "I was terrified hearing about it!"  
Sherlock scratched the cast around his arm. "Yeah, it actually caught me off guard. I did manage to tell the officers what happened to mummy; so at least he won't be out for a very long time..."  
"When are the trials?" Mrs Watson asked.  
"Mr Moriarty's is in a week and Mr Holmes' is in a fortnight."  
"I'll be there, 'Lock. Don't want you going through it alone..."  
"We'll both be there, Sherlock. It's unfair for someone as sweet and polite as you to go through things like that at your age..." Mrs Watson added, "I may even be going to my seat and trip over, accidentally hitting him in the head!"  
Sherlock and John giggled, "that would be amazing, mum!" John smiled.  
"Do you want to go into town? I fancy going to that café..." Sherlock asked.  
"Sure!" John smiled as he kissed his boyfriend.  
They walked out the door, hand in hand, as Mrs Watson smiled. She knew they were both happy.

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So this is it. My theory for this was that Sherlock was very polite before his father broke him for good and he got involved with drugs and the like. John saves the day! Yay! Please review, I'd love some reviews!


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